Tears of Children
by Vicky-V
Summary: Because sometimes, when you're that young, it's all you can do.


**Characters:** Lancelot, Arthur, Morgana, Will, Gwen, Edwin, Merlin.

**Word Count:** 4,148

**Notes:** Spoilers for episode 5, 6 10 and 12.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing in connection with BBC's Merlin, nor do I make any money writing this fanfiction.

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**Tears of Children**

Lancelot had found that large tree in the woods, the one with the roots raised above the ground which made a great hiding place. Every other time he had squeezed into that small space it was because he was playing, but now he hid for real, curling himself into a tight ball with his knees pressing up against his forehead.

His trousers were torn and dirty, and he bit into as much of it as he could because he was so scared. Scared of making a noise while he cried, otherwise they might hear. His stomach churned, his legs felt weak, his whole body shook and he was sure he'd be sick. But hoped he wouldn't because then they might find him.

Lancelot could still feel the heat of the flames licking at his back and the ache of the burns he'd been marked with. Some distance behind him, he could hear the roars and crashes as the fires they started destroyed his village. He could hear their shouts and the horrified screams which kept getting nearer and nearer. He could hear his mother's voice as she spoke to him in a hushed, hurried voice and lifted him out of the back window. Her eyes were wide and afraid as she told him to run away. Run away, Lancelot, quickly and keep running. Don't look back. No matter what, don't look back and keep running.

He didn't look back, not when he saw unfamiliar shadows stretching over the walls as he rushed through the darkness, hoping he wouldn't be seen. Not when he heard the crash of the door being knocked down, the shouts of his father and the screams of his mother.

It didn't matter how hard he pushed his palms into his ears. He could still hear it.

xxx

If Arthur had things his way, he would be able to use all of his time for his sword practice. It was what he was good at and what he loved. And he wouldn't let Morgana join in either. But his father, although proud of his skills, told him that the hours of the morning would be when he was to sit for his lessons.

A king needed excellent battle skills, Arthur was told, but he needs to be clever as well. While wisdom would come in time, knowledge would be passed to him by Geoffrey, who had been personally appointed by his father as Arthur's tutor.

While he hated the idea of bending over books during the valuable time which could be used for improving his sword work skills, Arthur did so. He would sit, staring down at page after page of book after book, which seemed to be getting thicker with each one. He was made to write things down again and again until he was sure he would fall backwards asleep, he was so bored.

There was a window beside the table he was made to sit at, but Arthur had never looked out of it, he was so busy writing things down, trying to look vaguely interested and not fall asleep. Then, one day, he did. A misplaced and accidental brush of his hand had sent the inkpot tumbling to the floor, smashing into pieces and splattering a dark blue wound across the stone. As he turned towards the shocking noise, Arthur had seen for the first time the view of Camelot which lay beyond the window. He could see the street down which people hurried back and forth, often pulling carts and carrying loads.

He saw a woman carrying such a load, a bundle of something wrapped in an old cloth which she balanced on her shoulder with one hand. In the other she clutched the hand of a little girl, who hurried to keep up.

That woman was a mother. Arthur knew that but had never thought about such a thing.

He could hear Geoffrey, talking quickly as he carefully picked up the larger chunks of glass and scolded Arthur, mostly with threats to tell his father about how careless he was.

And they were threats he kept. His father was informed and, while glaring at his son, he told Arthur that his lessons would be extended by three hours until informed otherwise. While Geoffrey agreed, his voice sounding somewhat heavy as he did, Arthur was enraged about having more time for sword practice drained away and argued furiously.

But the king's word was final.

Arthur was much more careful after that and he was given those three hours of sword practice back after two weeks. During and after the punishment, Arthur would steal glances out of the window whenever he could, watching the people of Camelot pass buy. He would see carts of harvests being pulled along, women hurrying and comparing what they had and men riding horses. And sometimes he would see women with children. Mothers, holding their child's hand or keeping an eye on them as they walked beside each other.

He had never thought about not having a mother before and when he started he would remember that woman pulling her little girl along, holding her hand tightly. Arthur wanted to stop those thoughts, because whenever they happened it would make his chest hurt and his throat tighten, but he didn't know what that feeling was and it frustrated him. Sometimes it scared Arthur when he would suddenly feel his eyes burn as they filled with tears and he would hurry to wipe them away on his sleeve and feel relieved they hadn't been noticed. Even when he refused to look out of the window, going for days without a glimpse, he would still think of those children who had their mothers. And sometimes, as he listened to the passages in the books being recited to him, Arthur would find he had clasped his hands together in his lap, squeezing tightly.

xxx

Morgana's father often told her how much like her mother she was in almost every way. Her mother, she was told, was beautiful and kind and caring and, at the same time, very brave as well. He could see it in her, she was told.

When Morgana looked into her mirror, slowly running a brush through her hair, she would watch her reflection and, although she had never known her, it was so easy to imagine her mother in front of her. With a face so soft, hair which caught the sun and eyes which looked so gentle and so safe.

Sometimes Morgana would imagine it so much she would find herself missing the mother she had never known and had to stop, walking away while wiping her eyes.

Then her father had to go and fight for Uther Pendragon, who she knew to be a dear friend of his. He hugged Morgana tightly before he left, kissed her forehead and stroked her hair out of her face, away from where it was becoming wet with her tears. He would be back soon. She shouldn't worry.

But he never came back.

Things moved so quickly after that and Morgana didn't care to remember all of it. The only thing she knew for certain was how she couldn't stop crying as she was taken in by King Uther Pendragon himself, at the request of her father, she was told. Morgana was given her own room with a large soft bed and fine clothes laid out for her.

But she didn't want it. She screamed and cried, so much she thought she was ripping her own chest apart from the inside. She threw her clothes on a heap in the floor and left them there, repeating the action when somebody picked them back up and folded them again. Morgana even tried to scratch and bite those who came to assist her. It was only when Uther lost his temper and threatened to put her in the dungeons, child or not, did she calm down.

With all the things she had, Morgana somehow felt awful for asking a favour of Uther and it took her weeks to pluck up the courage. But it was all for nothing because when she asked if she could see where her father fell, he shook his head, looked away and told her no. Morgana had managed to make it all the way back to her room before she started crying again, pushing her face into her pillows hard until her chest hurt because she was sobbing so much and because she couldn't breathe properly.

When she looked in the mirror, Morgana could so easily imagine her mother again. She was crying too.

xxx

The only thing Will knew for certain was his mother kept crying. Ever since the few men who had left the village to fight for the king came back and there were less of them. Once they had been seen emerging from the forest, those who had been left to wait behind gathered at the edge of the village, waiting eagerly to welcome them back. Will remembered all the talking getting quieter as they got closer. He looked for his father but didn't understand why he couldn't see him. Was he still fighting? Why would he be left to do that?

When those men entered the village, the talking stopped completely. Some people embraced the men as they dismounted from their horses and Will kept looking for his father.

Was he hiding in the forest? Playing a trick?

One of the men came over to his mother, carrying a bundle of something wrapped in brown cloth, and took her away from the group. Will watched, thinking perhaps he was telling her where his father was. He watched closely for her smile but it never came. Instead the man handed the bundle he was holding to his mother, her eyes grew wide, she shook her head. As the man rested a hand upon her shoulder, she began to shudder and pushed her face into the cloth.

A day later she was still crying. They were all gathered around a fire, Will remembered. A large one and his mother held his hand tightly. He could feel her fingers shaking and her palm wet against his. Words were spoken as the flames flickered and the smoke rose up, but Will didn't hear them properly. He was still watching the forest, wondering when his father would come out.

He was standing there for a long time before his mother started to lead him away. As she tugged on his hand, he asked her, quietly, where his father was. He was tired of waiting, tired of him hiding. At first she had only gazed at him, wide-eyed, and Will asked her again, thinking she just hadn't heard properly.

Where was he? Where was he?

Will could see his mother's eyes filling with tears as he kept asking and could feel his own starting to sting. He sniffed hard as he felt his nose start to run and something in his throat went tight, making his voice jump as he asked her where his father was. Where was he? Why hadn't he come back yet?

She fell to her knees, gathering him up in her arms and held him close and tight. Will could hear her crying, sobbing into his shoulder as she stroked a hand through his hair. He kept asking, just couldn't stop. Not until he was crying too much to speak as well.

One year later, he's crying again as he bends over his mother's body. She hadn't been well for a long, long time until she could hardly move, barely getting up in the morning. He had done everything he could for her; help her to dress, sweep the house, collect the eggs from the chickens and prepare meals. Hunith came to help a lot, telling Will to go out with Merlin while she took over.

He was still a child, Will was told. He needed to go outside and be one while he still was.

When he was with Merlin he knew how to smile. Merlin was his best friend and knew how to do some great things. When Hunith asked them to go out, they would go into the forest and Merlin would make the dead leaves upon the ground fly up into the air to make shapes like dogs and fish and horses. Merlin could make flowers open and close, making them look like they were all talking to each other at once. Merlin could make the leaves on the trees turn red, brown and yellow, like they did in autumn, then back to green again. But only if Will promised not to tell. And of course Will kept his word that he wouldn't.

One day Hunith came running outside, calling for them to come back in. There was something about her voice. Will didn't know what it was but it was bad. Very bad.

His mother was lying in bed, just as she always did. His father's armour, which he had worn so proudly before leaving, was hung in the corner of the room where she could see it. There were other people around her bed and they turned to look at him as he came in.

Hunith knelt down beside him and put her hands upon his shoulders. But Will didn't like that feeling. It reminded him too much of bad things, so he reached up, pulled her hands off him and rushed to his mother's side.

She looked as though she might be asleep. But something was wrong. Badly, badly, wrong. Because she wouldn't talk back to him, wouldn't answer to tell him she was okay when he asked her, even when Will shook her shoulder. She would be angry Will had woken her up for that, but he wanted the answer.

But she wouldn't wake up. She wouldn't answer.

What was the matter with her? Will kept asking Hunith, who was still kneeling on the floor and holding Merlin close to her. What was the matter? Why wouldn't she speak to him?

She had died of a broken heart. That was what Will overheard several days later when Hunith thought he was asleep. Merlin, sat upon her lap, asked what had happened to Will's father.

And he got an answer.

Will's father had been killed, Hunith said, fighting a war for the king.

Like his mother did, Will had been crying a lot and he did then, pushing his face as hard as he could into the pillow he shared with Merlin on the floor.

xxx

Gwen's favourite things were the dolls her father made for her out of straw. There were three of them and at first they had all started looking the same. The only way Gwen was able to tell one of them apart was because it was smaller. Then one day she had woken up and found them dressed in clothes, pieced together from patches of cloth. One of the large ones and the small one had dresses and the other had a pair of trousers and a shirt, (made of the same material but drawn on to make it appear otherwise). They were a little family now.

While her father worked, Gwen would sit in the bedroom and play with them, making the child doll stand between the father doll and the mother doll so she could hold their hands. When she went out to play with the other children she knew, she would sometimes take one of the dolls with her. It was often the mother doll. Some of the other girls she played with would want to have a go with her doll as well, which Gwen would let them, but only if they were really, really careful.

And one day they weren't. It was an accident and Gwen would later come to realise that. She had gone home to her father in tears and clutching the doll, which was ripped in the middle. Her father had stopped the work he was doing and repaired it for her. As he did so, Gwen sat in the corner and held the father and daughter doll, making them hug each other while they waited.

Once when Gwen looked up, she caught sight of her father wiping his eyes but didn't understand why.

When the doll was handed back to her, fixed, Gwen started crying again. But because she was happy this time and she hugged her father tightly, making sure she held the fixed doll carefully as she did so. As she drew away, she saw him wiping his eyes again.

That evening, Gwen's father sat her on his knee and showed her how to make the doll a new dress, because the old one was still torn. Gwen had made it herself and, while it wasn't perhaps as good as what her father could do, he told her how proud he was and hugged her tightly.

Gwen always left her dolls behind when she went out to play after that. She didn't want something to happen to make the family sad again.

xxx

Things had changed so quickly. They hadn't known they were coming.

Then, all of a sudden, there they were. The men of King Uther burst into the house and began knocking everything off the shelves and tables, smashing them onto the floor. All the equipment and books and mixtures his parents collected and treasured were destroyed in moments.

The three of them were ushered into the middle of the room; Edwin and his parents. He held onto his mother tightly, shaking and peering out from over his arms to watch as the book he had started to study from was ripped and torn apart. Four men stood, surrounding them, while another read from an unrolled piece of parchment. Edwin couldn't hear properly over everything smashing and his father's protests, but there was one sentence he did manage to understand.

By order of his royal highness, King Uther Pendragon.

The parchment was rolled up and his mother started to shout. She held Edwin tightly and he could feel her shuddering as well. His father stepped forward, raising his hand and then he fell. His chest was bleeding heavily as a sword was pulled from it by one of the men who stood around them and Edwin heard the screams of his mother ringing in his ears.

The men left and the door was slammed shut, leaving them surrounded by pieces of torn paper, broken pots and scattered powders. Edwin felt his stomach twist and burn and tears ran down his cheeks as his mother pulled him close, trying to press his face to her so he wouldn't see how his father lay upon the ground, staring up as blood ran from his open mouth.

Edwin could hear a long whine coming from somewhere and his throat hurt. Then his mother screamed once again and he suddenly felt heat all around them. He managed to push himself away from his mother just enough to see the flames which were creeping in through the door, snaking along the walls and snatching up the torn paper and ingredients upon the floor.

He felt his stomach burn and his throat clench again, blinking his eyes as they were struck by thick smoke and large tears fall down his face. His mother dragged him to the door, holding onto him tightly but he could feel how heavily her palm was sweating and feared he might lose his grip.

She tried the door, pushing against it, only to recoil back as flames licked at her hand and smoke plunged down her throat, making her cough heavily.

This way! That was what she wheezed at him, pulling Edwin back again. He stumbled after her, being pulled along and not able to see where he was going through the smoke and the tears which kept swimming in his eyes and pouring down his face.

The next thing Edwin knew was he was being lifted and could feel the air outside against his face. Through the roar of the fire and something bursting, he heard his mother, telling him to run away quickly. He must run, he must get away.

The long whine came again and Edwin knew it was from him as he reached for his mother, managing to clutch at her shoulders and choke through his tears that, no, he didn't want to go.

But he must, Edwin was told, he must go, quickly. She would try to follow. She would find him.

They should leave together. All of them. That was what Edwin wanted to say but, just when he opened his mouth, the fire caught something and whatever it was exploded. The heat of the fire and sharp shards of something struck Edwin, knocking him back, out of the window and onto the ground around the side of the house.

His mother was screaming. Screaming with horrible pain and Edwin could hear it. At first it sounded far away, but rushed up closer and closer until it suddenly sounded as though she was screaming right into his ear along with the crackling of the fire as it consumed everything it could. As he opened his eyes again, pain stuck his body and he screamed. Everything hurt and he could still hear those screams, ripping at him.

Edwin kept trying to move, trying to get up. They needed to get away. They needed to get away together. She probably needed help getting his father out.

As he managed to pull himself to his knees, gritting his teeth and crying through the pain, Edwin felt something pull at his shoulders, dragging him away from the house which was being consumed by flames and throwing great thick smoke up into the night sky. He screamed and cried as he was being pulled away, trying to thrash and struggle but it hurt too much.

He needed to keep still, Edwin was told by whoever was pulling him away. His wounds would only get worse otherwise.

No. No, he couldn't go. Edwin thought he was saying that, but wasn't sure. But he did know he could hear his mother screaming, the man talking, the fire roaring, getting further away again. He was scared, terrified. He felt sick and everything hurt, ripping him apart.

As things started to fade again, the last thing he remembered was hating Uther Pendragon.

xxx

Merlin had never seen his mother like that before and it terrified him. Her eyes were wide and glazed with tears which sometimes slipped out and ran down her face, past her thin lips and her gritted teeth. She clutched his shoulders tightly and it hurt Merlin but that wasn't why he was crying as well. It was because he knew she was scared and, although he hadn't meant to, Merlin had caused it.

Why had he done that? His mother kept asking Merlin again and again in a voice which was hushed and, in a strange way, even worse than her shouting. As she kept asking, sometimes she looked up, her face fearful, almost as though she expected to see somebody at the door.

Why had he done that? He might have killed himself. And Will! What if Will had seen?

But Will had seen and he didn't mind. For a moment, Merlin thought of telling his mother that, thinking it would make things better again. But then he decided not to. They had both promised not to tell. And they hadn't killed themselves. The tree, (the really old one which some said would fall over with a good gust of wind anyway), had fallen a bit too close, but it was all fine. It was all okay.

It was okay and he told her that. He wished he wasn't crying so much because his throat kept going tight, raising and sometimes stopping his voice. But he couldn't help it because he was scared. Scared because his mother was so afraid of what could have happened.

Then she was pulling him close, holding him tightly and Merlin could feel it hurting his chest. But it didn't hurt as much as when his chest and throat would tighten and jolt as he cried, trying to stop but just couldn't. His mother hugged him, stroked a hand through his hair, told him how much she loved him and that he just mustn't do that again. It was dangerous. Far too dangerous. She couldn't lose him. Just couldn't.

Merlin could feel her tears falling into his hair, running down his ear and soaking into the shirt covering his shoulder. She was shaking and so was he. The tree falling so close to him had been scary. But not as much as this. Not nearly as much as this.

So he would never do that again. He promised. He promised he would never do that again.

_**END**_


End file.
